Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

  “She has her period. We’ll send her up with pads.” The nurse pulled the thermometer from the girl’s mouth, glanced at it, and stuck it back in a jar of alcohol. “Wait a minute, Allison, and you can take her with you. She doesn’t talk much, this one. But she’s no dummy. Don’t let her fool you.” She handed Allison a stack of paperwork and a white bag full of pads and tampons. “Good luck.”

  Allison motioned for the girl to follow her. “What’s your name?” she said.

  The girl stared stonily ahead.

  “Violet Swann,” the nurse called from down the corridor. “With two n’s. Not like the bird.”

  Violet Swann. A stoner fourteen-year-old with stringy brown hair and a waist that spanned the length of one of Allison’s outstretched hands. A self-mutilator. Defiant. Allison had read her case file with a mixture of grief and rage. The fourth time Violet ran away she was raped by a teenaged neighbor looking for a way to prove his manhood. Six days after the rape, Violet set fire to his parents’ garage, earning her the hard-to-place label “fire-setter.” After nine placement rejections, her caseworker finally sent her to the Meadows.

  Allison knew Violet didn’t have a chance, really. The details of her history had read like any clinical file in any residential treatment program in any state in America. Abuse, neglect, drugs, sex. Probably in that order. Two therapists at the Meadows fought to have Violet taken off their caseload. She wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t even shower unless a staff member dragged her kicking and screaming, her hand clutched around an ancient, eye-less, smelly stuffed hippo. She needs a psychiatric placement, they said. She’s psychotic, they said. But no one listened. Poor Violet was too sick for foster care and too well for a psych hospital. The truth was, she had nowhere else to go.

  So eventually Allison asked her boss, Dr. Nutzbaum, to transfer Violet to her caseload. Doc shook his head and said, “Allison, don’t bet on a sore loser. She has a 145 I.Q. and spent the last ten years of her life wasting it, one I.Q. point at a time. She’s oppositional, probably has Borderline Personality Disorder, and is incapable of bonding. Find a better use for your graduate education. Use it on someone who has a chance at making it.”

  As she pulled into the mall parking lot now, a sullen Maggie beside her, Allison tried to picture Violet’s face, but all she saw were sunken gray eyes and the dark hole where her right eye-tooth had been. She knew that wasn’t really fair; there were moments when Violet had looked beautiful. Specks of gold had glittered in her eyes in the sunlight, making them appear translucent. Those eyes, together with her dark hair and fair skin, gave her an ethereal countenance. In those moments, Allison saw the author, the artist, the scholar that Violet could have been.

  And it made her want to weep.

  Ten

  Allison switched off the ignition and glanced at her watch. 4:58. Another two hours before Maggie was expected home. With a twinge of guilt, Allison wished she hadn’t insisted on the full three-hour intake session. But she wasn’t about to change that now.

  Maggie said, “Why are we here?”

  “To browse.”

  “I don’t want to be seen here with you.”

  Allison grabbed her purse off the floor behind her seat. “Look, Maggie, you agreed to this, remember? ‘Daddy said my last chance is coming over today.’ Those were your words, not mine. So cut the attitude and let’s try to make this work.”

  Maggie sat, arms crossed, and stared straight ahead.

  “Let’s go, Maggie.”

  “No.”

  “You only have two more hours. Let’s put them to good use.”

  “I said no.”

  Allison took a deep breath. “Think, Maggie. Your parents expect you to fail. At least, that’s how they’ll see it. Why don’t you throw them a curve ball? Cooperate. Consider what you might get out of this relationship before you do something that causes more trouble.”

  Maggie twisted in the seat to face Allison. “I don’t like you. You’re here because they’re paying you to be here.”

  Allison weighed a response and decided to be candid. “That’s true.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I want to hate you.”

  “So hate me.” Allison got out of the car and shut the door. This time, Maggie followed.

  “Look, Maggie, I’m not trying to dictate how you feel about me. I have a job to do. You have a desire to stay out of boarding school, and I’m the ticket to freedom. Despise me, if that’s what it takes. Just cooperate and everybody wins.”

  Maggie looked for a brief second like she would capitulate. Then suddenly, from a few rows over in the parking lot, Allison heard car doors slam and the competing voices of teenage girls talking and laughing over nothing much. Maggie’s features hardened.

  “The hell with that,” she said and stormed toward the mall.

  Allison jogged in three-inch wedges to keep up with her. After catching her breath and thanking the good Lord for thick, strong ankles, Allison said, “I’m sure we can find some common ground.”

  Stormy silence.

  Allison tried to think of things teens liked to talk about. Of course, they liked to talk to each other, not thirty-three-year-old women. She gave it a go anyway. “Do you have a boyfriend, Maggie?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I heard you mention going out tonight and I thought maybe a guy was involved.”

  A glimmer of interest flashed in Maggie’s eyes. Allison hoped she’d cave. Boy-talk would at least be common ground.

  “I said it’s none of your business.”

  Allison counted to ten silently to keep from telling Maggie what she could do with her business and led the way into Neiman Marcus.

  Maggie marched through the women’s dress section as though unfazed by the sequined materials and lithe mannequins that lined the aisles. Allison steered her toward the escalator and a trendier department. Maybe being around girls her own age, and around fashions most teens would kill for, would motivate her.

  “What do you like to do in your spare time, Maggie?”

  “No comment.”

  “This isn’t an interrogation. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

  Maggie flashed her an evil grin. “Okay then. I’m a witch.”

  “Really?” Allison had been eyeing a Kate Spade bag she thought would be perfect for one of her clients. When Maggie spoke, she turned to give her full attention. “A witch? As in rides a broomstick and has a thing for black cats?”

  “Make fun of me if you want, but it’s true. I go by Lanomia. My parents told me not to tell you.”

  “Should that matter to me? That you’re a witch?”

  “Aren’t you afraid of witchcraft?”

  Allison shrugged. “Should I be?”

  Maggie let out a huff of exasperation. Then, all of a sudden, her attention shifted to something or someone behind Allison. She moaned. Allison turned. Two girls and a woman were snaking their way through the thin crowd in the center aisle, heading right toward them. Maggie was doing her best to disappear behind Allison’s back, but her skirt billowed on all sides behind Allison.

  “Maggie McBride?” The older of the two girls smirked. “Never thought we’d see you here.”

  “Yeah,” the smaller girl said. “We thought you did all your shopping at the Salvation Army.”

  Both girls laughed. Allison stood in front of Maggie, feeling protective of her client and debating what to say. She sized up the people in front of her. The woman looked vaguely familiar. She was tall, lean, and brunette. Not so much beautiful as sensuous in a lazy, sleepy sort of way. Heavy eyelids, full mouth. High, heavy breasts that strained against a black wool turtleneck sweater. She carried an assortment of over-stuffed shopping bags from The Limited, Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales, and Gap. She shifted impatiently from side to side.

  The two girls, pr
esumably her daughters, looked nothing alike. One was about Maggie’s age, but taller and much thinner. She had her mother’s dark hair, but her face was elfin, more cute than pretty. The younger girl’s strawberry blond hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. She flashed sultry green eyes and wore a tight sweater that outlined a body ripening too quickly for her age.

  “Desiree Moore.” The woman held out her hand to Allison. “And these are my daughters, Sarah and Megan. You’re the image consultant and writer, Allison Campbell. From the Outside In. Loved the book. I went to one of your workshops on leading with the right side of your brain. Fabulous.” She waved her hand casually toward the girls. “I’m sorry about my daughters. Silly teenagers. They’re harmless.” She shot the older one a warning look.

  Allison became aware of Maggie’s hand on her back, pushing her forward. Allison took a step to leave, a fast but polite exit on the tip of her tongue, when one of Desiree’s daughters spoke up.

  “Is she your girlfriend, Maggie?” A mean giggle.

  “Sarah.” Desiree smiled apologetically, and Allison saw tiny, perfectly white teeth, all lined up in a carnivorous row.

  Allison felt another sudden—and surprising—need to protect Maggie.

  “We have to get going. I promised Maggie’s mother I’d drop her off.”

  “Is she getting an image makeover?” The younger girl said. “That’s what you do, right?”

  “She certainly needs one.”

  “Sarah!” Desiree pulled the girl close to her, although whether it was an act of protection or reprimand, Allison wasn’t sure. Maggie looked horror-stricken. All Allison knew was that she needed to leave before she said something she’d regret.

  Allison fixed the older girl with her most condescending smile and said, “Actually, Sarah, Maggie’s a friend of the family. I’m just picking her up at the mall. She was hanging out with friends.”

  Allison could see a little of the tension drain from Maggie’s face. It was worth the lie. Maggie cocked her head up a notch and stared back at the sisters. That a girl! Don’t let them push you around!

  Sarah shrugged. “Whatever.” She and her sister shared a knowing smirk.

  Still annoyed, Allison pulled a card from her purse. She held it out to Desiree and said, “I give lessons on manners and etiquette, too. Just in case you’re interested.”

  Without waiting for a response from Desiree, she grabbed Maggie’s arm and led her to the exit. When they were safely out of earshot, she said, “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you know them from school?”

  Maggie squirmed. Her eyes shifted to the right. She nodded.

  They were passing through the makeup department, on their way back out to the parking lot. Allison had decided to call it a day. She wouldn’t charge the McBrides for anything other than the first hour. The mall trip had been a waste of time, and after the run-in with Desiree and her girls, Allison didn’t think she could salvage it.

  A skinny woman with a bad dye job and fire engine red lipstick sprayed perfume on a card and held it out to them. Allison declined, but Maggie reached for it. Allison saw the woman take in Maggie’s clothes with a long swallow of a glance.

  Maggie put her nose to the scented card.

  “Marc Jacobs,” Allison said. “Nice, huh?”

  Maggie scrunched up her features. “It’s alright.”

  “You don’t have to like it, you know.” They had arrived at the double doors that led outside and Allison paused before opening them. “Everyone is different. What smells good to you might not smell nice to me. Perfume works with your body’s chemistry, so to really get it right you have to try the scent on.”

  Allison watched a flicker of interest light up Maggie’s eyes. Her white face powder had begun to wear off, and the sallowness of the skin underneath came through. She had shadows around her eyes too pronounced for a fifteen-year-old. There was something moving about the way Maggie stood there, looking at that perfume card and fighting the urge to know more.

  “Want to try out some scents?”

  For a moment, Maggie looked as though she was going to say yes. But then she caught herself, tossed the card to the floor, and scowled.

  “Your world, not mine,” she said.

  Allison reached for the door, disappointed. “Then let’s head back to your world, Maggie,” she said. “After we grab a bite to eat.”

  Mia counted. Ninety-six egg cups, six different types of seeds, sixteen plants of each. She looked at the mess spread out on the makeshift porch table and warmed her hands under her wool sweater. It was still chilly for March, especially out here when the wind was blowing, like now. She picked up a spoon and opened the bag of potting soil. Three spoonfuls for each seed, a few drops of water, and then into the greenhouse and under the grow lamps. By some miracle, in a few months she’d have food to last through the summer: tomatoes and eggplant, green beans and spinach, lettuce and squash. She’d done something wrong last year, and only a third of her seeds had grown into seedlings, and then only half of them produced a vegetable, which is why she’d spent the year trudging back and forth to the Whole Foods twenty miles away. Not this year. She’d get it right.

  Buddy nosed his way under her armpit and gave her love nips with his front teeth. “Not now, boy,” she said and pushed him gently away. She glanced at her watch. Jason was supposed to stop by and fill her in on the Feldman murder. She’d baked him a loaf of honey wheat bread and some chocolate chip cookies. Next she’d make coffee, start the fire in the living room, and hope he’d stay awhile. Anything to keep her mind occupied. And Jason, she was sure, could use the company as much as she could. Maybe he’d even stay for dinner.

  The phone rang. She wiped her hands on her jeans and pulled out her mobile.

  “Mom, I got held up with work. I’ll have to make it another day.” Mia heard the regret in Jason’s voice and swallowed her own disappointment. She thought of the bread cooling by the stove, of the tin of cookies on the counter. She’d freeze them.

  “That’s fine.”

  “You sound upset. Are you okay? Dad didn’t call to harass you again, did he?”

  “I’m okay, Jason. Just in the middle of spring planting, that’s all. What’s the news on the Feldman case?”

  “Some sort of satanic ritual. At least that’s what it looks like.” She heard him breathe deeply. “If the police haven’t contacted you already, they will.”

  “Someone came by today. Lieutenant Helms. Like I told him, Jason, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Of course you didn’t. How did the conversation go?”

  “Fine.” She sighed. “I told him what I know, which is that Feldman was a bastard, but I didn’t wish him dead. At least not recently.” She laughed, and it sounded a little crazy, even to her. “Look, I haven’t seen Arnie Feldman in almost three years. I cooperated with Helms. There’s nothing more to say.”

  “You should have called me. I would have come by for the discussion.”

  “He surprised me.”

  Jason paused. “Did he seem satisfied with your answers?”

  Mia thought about the conversation. Helms had been hard to read. He’d wanted an alibi for the night of Feldman’s murder. That was the one thing Mia couldn’t give him. She said truthfully, “I don’t know.”

  After a few seconds, Jason said, “Let’s see how things go. I’m worried because of the pressure Helms is under. The fact that he’s doing legwork himself underscores his anxiety over this murder. We might find you a lawyer, just in case. You did threaten to kill Feldman during court proceedings. Not the smartest thing to do on record.”

  “I get it. It was dumb. That’s the past.” And that’s where she wanted it—in the past. The police visit was forcing her to live through it all over again. Just thinking about Helms caused her heart to pound away in her ribc
age. She gripped a container of seeds too hard. The bag split and the tiny gray dots scattered under the potting table as though happy to get away from her.

  Jason said, “Mom, still there?”

  Wearily, she said, “Sorry, just thinking. What were you saying?”

  “Kids. They’re also looking at the possibility that kids were involved.”

  “How could kids do something so horrible?”

  “They’re looking at every possibility. There’s a lot of money in this town. People want answers.”

  “But a kid, Jason?”

  Jason sighed. “Kids. Plural. They’re even questioning Feldman’s own son, Ethan.”

  Eleven

  The McBride house was dark when Allison and Maggie arrived at 7:05. Allison pulled into the circular driveway and idled in front of the double-doored entryway. Where were Maggie’s parents? She and Maggie had finished a silent dinner nearly an hour ago—Mexican, Maggie’s choice—but Maggie was insistent that they not return to her house until the designated time. “They’ll think I didn’t cooperate,” she said. “And I’m not cooperating, just for the record. But they don’t need to know that.”

  Too tired to argue, Allison took Maggie back to First Impressions where the girl had been drawn to the very catalogues that had prompted the mall trip in the first place.

  “I’m just bored,” Maggie said while flipping through DKNY. Her flat black hair, end-of-the-day limp, fell across her eyes. “So don’t get any ideas. This is all so very lame.”

  And Allison had to agree. It was by far the lamest session she’d had since she’d bought the business from Mia. Three torturous hours of lame. Maggie had used every spare second to remind Allison of how uncool/corporate/phony she was, and even the image-consultant armor Allison usually donned to ward off client projection was starting to wear thin. Time for Maggie to go home.

  But her house was dark. So now what?

  Maggie opened the passenger door.